


Enterprising Young Men

by Roughnight



Series: You. Me. Everything Else Is Irrelevant. [1]
Category: Dead Space, Sherlock (TV), Star Trek
Genre: Alternate Universe, John is determined, Khan is fascinated, M/M, Necromorphs, a beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:22:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roughnight/pseuds/Roughnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>.</p><p>He has awoken from his cryo slumber to find a man call him by a different name. This stranger, John Watson, seemed to have committed the most unforgivable sin to ensure his escape. </p><p>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enterprising Young Men

**Author's Note:**

> I am completely paralyzed by all the glory that is Benedict Cumberbatch in Star Trek Into Darkness. (For that matter, the Microsoft Word ought to recognize the spelling of Cumberbatch and not underline it in red.) The other ongoing fics have been stagnant so I surrendered once again to this plaguing dilemma and let it come into existence. Watching Star Trek Into Darkness five times in cinema wasn’t simply enough. One does not get enough of Benedict Cumberbatch. And the world is especially dull without a certain blonde man at his side.
> 
>  
> 
> This fic is unbeta’d. Apologies for any mistake.
> 
>  

 

 

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

He awoke traitorously slowly. He could hear faint noises that seemed distant at first even as his head swam in bouts of nausea and the nasty sensation of being submerged far too long in water. What initially registered as dull thuds have then gradually increased to roaring echoes that rumbled in his ear and inside his head, almost splitting his skull open from the earthquake that was in his mind. Vaguely, he can feel arms being snaked beneath his shoulders, a hand gently caressing at his nape as it did so. And then he was being hauled up, being dragged forward until he was leaning completely in what seemed to be somebody else’s chest. The nausea plummeted sickeningly worse for the briefest second. He scrunched his eyes in protest. He felt warmth on his face and it was only then that he’d realized how the rest of his body was so frighteningly cold. His limbs were so very numb that they couldn’t even shiver properly. A blanket was wrapped quickly around his torso, covering the back of his neck and the whole of his chin. The hand on his shoulder and the arm beneath his back never really left and he felt the warmth emanating from them a comfort. There was a brush of lips on his forehead, a swift, wet, reckless peck, as if the act was done before the mind could think about it, unsure and clumsy but executed as a form of sentiment. At this point his hearing had become clear and what occurred as deafening noises at first gradually sublimated until he could discern the sounds for what they truly are. There was the steady hum of generator and what were unmistakably the roars of some other sophisticated machines, he could make out the wheels and engines rolling and overlapping at each other. The return of his sharp senses was a sharp relief. Then there was the rapid heartbeat from the chest pressed against his ear.

 

“ _Sherlock,_ ” a weak, almost cracking voice called. There was another press of lips against the crown of his head which was now plastered with damp air, the ice finally melting—for surely that was where he woke up from. It wasn’t unfamiliar after all. This was hardly the first time. He was in a cryo-tube. “Sherlock, I need you to wake up. Please tell me you can hear me.”

 

The sensation on his fingers was finally coming back to him, needle pricks that spread out and transform to heat as the blood circulated suitably.

 

“ _Please_.” The voice was almost pleading, hopeful.

  

He opened his eyes and squinted from the harsh glare of light, his sight needing to once again get accustomed from something other than the reinforced darkness. It had taken long for the blurs to get realigned until what he was seeing actually made sense. Carefully, he let his gaze fall onto his side to finally take in the person who had reawakened him once again from his slumber.

 

It was a man. He was determinedly meeting his gaze, unafraid; with blue eyes that bespoke something he couldn’t make sense of at the moment. There were wrinkles of exhaustion around those blue orbs, but it was in the way they levelly looked back at him that was intriguing. Wary but with grim determination, completely devoid of fear but with something akin to what could be mistaken as joy—towards _him_ , that it was nearly impossible.  The man had sandy blonde hair atop his open, expressive face. His skin was unusually pale, as if he hadn’t gotten enough sun, almost sickly in contrast to this brightly lit room. The man’s jaw was clenched tight but after a beat of staring back at him, finally relaxed that it allowed a restrained sob escape from his mouth, his lips quivering.

 

“Oh god,” he gasped frantically. “Oh god, it really is you!”

 

He looked back at the blonde man with unearthly stillness he has honed over the years, observing. He couldn’t trust his own voice as it is. He couldn’t trust himself yet to be in a position he could deem safe. He had first to identify what this stranger calling him by a different name wanted from him. He needed to calculate. But then he wasn’t given a chance as there was a piercing echo of emergency alarm shrieking at the room, probably along the whole place and he felt the arms cradling his shoulders stiffen. The blonde man froze along with it and his breathing became shallow and controlled, his face now in a mask of dread and unrelenting intent. It was almost surreal and interesting—the way the man’s expression has quickly morphed.

 

“Who are you?” he finally asked, his voice was rasped but they were almost as good as normal.

 

The other man’s face looked disappointed and hurt and before he could discern it more closely, it was washed and schooled with preternatural determination.

 

“ _I_ —my name is John Watson.” The man answered after licking his lips. A nervous gesture, perhaps? “Listen, Sherlock, can you—”

 

“My name is Khan,” he corrected sharply, his voice almost rumbling. He was fairly certain he didn’t want to be mistaken for another person whose name was totally insignificant to him.

 

Startled at first, this man, John Watson, then looked at him brazenly and gave a curt nod. “Khan, then.” He said, testing the name on his tongue, licking his lips as the letters rolled. “Listen, Sherl— _Khan_ , we’re not really safe yet. I really need to get you out of this ship. Can you move your legs now? I need you to be able to walk.”

 

While Khan’s body was damp with melted ice and while his nerves are still tingling from the cold, he was fairly confident that he has finally regained his mobility. His enhanced genetic make-up ensured what was unattainable from the other species after all. A human would have needed extra support from several apparatuses but he of course did not. He briefly wondered if Watson was aware of his condition. He had to be, of course. John Watson was wearing what was unmistakably a blue uniform of the Starfleet, the immaculate insignia embedded on his chest. But there was something else on Watson’s expression that demanded his attention above all else. There was an edge of guilt and fear, a very peculiar combination.

 

“Khan,” the man called, his warm hand gripping Khan’s right shoulder.

 

“Watson,” he drawled in acknowledgment.

 

“John,” the man supplied hastily, sheepishly as he realized what he has said. “Can you call me John?”

 

Khan tilted his head languidly and stared back at the other man, deciding. John in response, bit the edge of his lips and let out a suffering sigh.

 

“It doesn’t matter. We really need to get out of here. Hold on to me.”

 

Without preamble but the tightening of his support on Khan’s back, John carried his weight and dragged him to his feet. Khan leaned on him as he arose but later realized how his legs were back with their capacity to hold the rest of his own. He staggered briefly as he lifted his legs and stepped out of the cryo-tube. Watson’s hands readily caught him, embracing his weight and keeping him from falling. The other man’s hand were always present, familiarly touching over his person. Curious, that.

 

Khan looked down to survey his own body. He himself was wearing a generic white suit. He would have preferred to have found the time to let the memories of his previous awakening come back to him as clear as crystal but Watson’s hand was already wrapping firmly on his right wrist in an attempt to pull him back from his musings and at the same time drag him to move forward in a barely contained need for haste. That was unfortunate, but the other man’s entire person was wrecked with recoil and tension that they were almost palpable.

 

“Please stop thinking.” Watson stated, his brows scowling disapprovingly but his mouth was twitching in what seemed to be a private amusement on his part—and _melancholy_ , for this man’s smiles were never devoid of it. “God, it’s been three years…”

 

Khan didn’t really know if he was expected to answer and relate to the blonde’s incessant words that did not make sense whatsoever, but he was saved from it by a sudden distant, rippling screaming from some other room not too far from where they stood and he belatedly noticed that the emergency alarm hasn’t really been disengaged. He had unintentionally paid a great amount of attention to the other man that the sound was simply cast aside, that or his senses apparently weren’t back to their optimal capacity yet. There was a dreadful recognition in John Watson’s eyes. The other man’s back stiffened and his limbs shook as if he was ready to bolt anytime. He was a beast whose hackles were raised.

 

“What have you done?” Khan demanded evenly. It wasn’t an accusation but the blonde man took it as one.

 

Watson’s face scrunched up, guilty but certainly not wholly regretful. It was of a man confused if he wanted to ask for salvation or for a fall.

 

“Something horrible,” Watson answered under his breath that Khan was fairly sure he wouldn’t have heard it if he didn’t have enhanced genetics. He was reminded of a man acceptant of an execution. “Something people would hate me for, hunt me for.” The man said resolutely and this time he met Khan’s eyes. He reached out for something that was tucked on his back and produced two stun guns. He handed one to Khan decidedly.

 

“We might need to change the lock after some time but at this point we’re more likely to encounter people first before the…” he hesitated, “— _others_.”

 

Others?

 

Khan took the gun, feeling the cool weight of the metal comfortable, almost soothing on his hands. While he was fairly certain he could subdue the other man with his bare hands, it would prove to be easier with the weapon in the equation. He was abruptly pulled out from his musings when Watson actually relaxed seeing him armed and let out an exhale of relief. As if that wasn’t enough, the other man had the gall to turn his back on him, Khan, in favor of surveying the door ahead of them.

 

With only a barely there glance over his shoulder, Watson uttered a determined, “Let’s go.”

 

Khan spared a glance between his stun gun and back at the other man’s back. Watson had the remarkable stance of a soldier. His shoulders were braced and he was stalking with the gravity centered even as he cast fleeting glances from side to side. He was without a doubt a man experienced in both melee and distanced combat. He _was_ prepared for combat, Khan deduced with fascination. The most peculiar thing perhaps in this blonde man was that he was glaring at the _pipes_ that coiled around the high ceiling and the closed ducts along the walls. He was looking at every nook and crannies with painted trepidation on his face as if he was expecting an attack from every unconceivable angle. Deciding that he actually might need this man for the moment, Khan followed suit. Watson was by now entering codes on the machinated door he had undoubtedly locked when Khan realized something of most importance.

 

“My _crew_.” He demanded. While the recollections of his previous awakening were fuzzy and unreliable still, the images and sounds of the torpedoes sheltering the cryo tubes of his crew were deeply ingrained in his brain. He had first to make sure.

 

Watson turned to him with pained expression. “They’re alive, kept hidden someplace else. We’ll just have to get to them later. We _really_ have no time. I promise to search with you no matter the hellhole the place we’d need to march onto.” He said with rushed breath. “I swear on my life.”

 

He had no reason to trust this man especially when it was plainly and painfully obvious how there are things of this circumstance still being kept in the dark. While he was fairly certain that he could not detect a lie from this person, Khan has had enough with people restoring him from a cryogenic slumber only to use what he could offer. It was rushing back to him, the memories of the despicable admiral and of the hateful whole Starfleet. His reluctance must’ve shown on his face for Watson rubbed his palm exasperatedly over his face. There was the sudden look of desperation on him once again when he finally looked Khan in the eyes.

 

“For god’s sake, _Sherlock—Khan_ , whatever,” he groaned, “I’ve just gotten you _back_. I sure as hell won’t lose you again. I’ll stun you myself and carry you on my back if I have to.”

 

Khan’s lips twitched with sarcastic mirth against his own judgment but before he could mouth a retort, the place trembled as an explosion sounded from somewhere nearby. It was followed by more distant and muffled screams, of throats growing hoarse to wreckage. His hand hovering over the door’s lock, Watson faced him with grim determination.

 

“Your crews are secured in their cryo-tubes. I know where. I reckon they’ll be safe even when the Starfleet finds out about you and about this place... I’ll help you get them if it means you’ll quit being a subborn prat and listen to me. Just trust me on this,” he said as he finally opened the door, “for now…”

 

The door led to an empty hallway with familiar design. They were unmistakably inside a ship. Watson strode forward without a backwards glance at him, expecting Khan to follow, his eyes darting all around the high ceiling and along the closed chutes at the walls. It was only when Khan finally caught up to him that he has decided to orient the man recently revived from the induced slumber.

 

“We’re in USG Ishimura,” he started with eyes that remained focused ahead of them, gun steadily aimed for a target they couldn’t see, “it’s a mining and medical vessel. It’s a _Planetcracker_ if that would make sense to you.”

 

Khan hummed stoically as he drank the words. The metal floor boards’ echoed their footsteps. They are yet to see a soldier running to apprehend them. Whatever distraction the man in front of him has concocted was bound to be a huge one and Khan was fairly certain it would prove to be something messy once it struck him in the face. He would gamble that it’d be catastrophic.

 

They were nearing another automated door ahead but before they could get close enough for the sensors to detect them, it opened and in came a most familiar figure Khan did not think he would see so early in this time of his awakening. She was still lithe and she still carried herself with posture. The line of years were apparent on her face but was still mostly recognizable that Khan deduced how he couldn’t have slept for a very long time since the last incident. She wasn’t wearing a red Starfleet uniform this time, no, she was aboard the ship as a civilian but was still noticeably carrying a gun on her hand.

 

“U—Uhura,” Watson acknowledged, surprise evident on his voice.

 

“John,” she said, startled as well, her eyes widening as she took in, rather slowly, the image of John Watson carrying a stun gun with an armed space criminal who has obviously just awoken from a slumber trailing behind him. With a sharp intake of breath, she recovered and aimed her weapon at Khan. “What are you doing with _him_?”

 

John Watson bristled, his eyes slid to his side for the briefest of moment before lodging back on Uhura. It was apparent even for Khan who had been oblivious of the goings of the world for years that the couple had a relationship of some sorts. They have been comrades most probably, if one was to judge Watson’s Starfleet uniform, his expression of mortification and Uhura’s face crushing into something drawn with pained betrayal.

 

“ _What have you done_?” She hissed the question that John Watson was yet to answer, her voice stuttering with utter disbelief, almost as if it was a whisper she didn’t really want to say or hear. Then with contorted anger that her face turned hideous, “I came back to make sure he’d never wake up as a consequence of this _horror_ make sure no greater harm would co-…but, _oh god_ , it was _you_?” She half cried, half shouted, scandalized.

 

“I’m sorry,” was all Watson said helplessly, his arms falling flaccid on his sides.

 

Uhura let out a sharp hiss before she set her eyes back on Khan, murderous and hateful which was accurately how Khan felt for her in return even if his face didn’t show it. He regarded her coolly, lips in a tight line. She has clearly planned to wipe him by whatever means she deigned when he was most vulnerable in his cryo sleep. Khan saw the telltale signs before the very second that Uhura shifted her arms to fire the gun at him. Without so much as flinching, he actually looked forward to it. It would probably take three or more rounds before his body would fall from the assault. He had plenty of times to retaliate. He had been fixated at Uhura that it was to say he was most stunned when John Watson, as silent as a grave, fired at the woman; those seemingly lax limbs traitorously bolting wildly.

 

Uhura crumpled but John Watson was already dashing towards her and catching her gently before she hit the ground. He laid her gently, and tenderly stroke a thumb against her cheek before he resolutely rose to his feet and looked at Khan inquiringly.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“You do know that your question does not make any sense whatsoever.” Khan drawled.

 

A quick nod. “We have to go now.” John said calmly.

 

It wasn’t lost on Khan how Watson rested Uhura’s gun on her chest, securely leaving her with a weapon for the time she wakes up. That was another puzzle right there. Why would this man desire to prepare the female soldier for combat for the time she regained consciousness when the whole purpose of this endeavor was for them to get away? The blonde man opened the door ahead of them. The next set of hallways was immersed in total darkness. A power failure?

 

John Watson, unperturbed, fumbled with the automated door they’d stepped from, leaving Uhura’s body behind. Khan watched closely to see that the man was installing lock codes on the door. Khan had a feeling it was more to keep someone or something from getting inside more than to prevent Uhura from getting out and coming after them.

 

This wing of the ship was eerily quiet. An occasional horrified shout would ring out loud from a distant but they were almost always abruptly stopped—as if their throats were torn in the middle of a full pledged scream. The doctor’s shoulders were tensed all over and he kept flashing furtive glances back at Khan then at his sides, up before finally alighting once again to their front.

 

“Best to keep our steps as stealthy as we could,” he whispered darkly, “at this point it would be more advantageous for us to keep the quiet than to mad dash towards our escape. Pod’s not too far from us. We’ll just need the elevator then we’re off.”

 

John Watson never did relax as they made their way. True to his word, he did not engage Khan with another conversation. Khan, in turn, took the opportunity to scan his surroundings. He thought he could smell something rancid, it was subtle but there definitely was something acrid in the air, something unfamiliar to him, something a human like Watson probably couldn’t smell without having the superior make up that Khan had.

 

He did not need to wait long. It was when the elevator was only a meter away that things finally had a turnabout. It started with a loud grating of metal and the scent of decay becoming potentially stronger.

 

It was  when he’d literally come face to face with whatever it was that Khan realized the atrocious deed John Watson has done. The blonde man called the thing he presumably committed before awakening Khan as ‘ _horrible_ ’. Khan rather thought the word did not even justifiably brushed the unadulterated horror Watson has unleashed upon the whole of USG Ishimura and its crew. The hideous beast appeared as the room shook, wrecking open a hole on the ceiling before promptly dropping on its feet in front of Khan. It was the form of necrotized human flesh, deformed and revolting with mouth disarrayed by hellish fangs and limbs shaped in scythe. With merely a heart’s beat, Khan had reflexively fired the gun on his hand. It was unfortunately locked to stun, barely impairing the beast. With a roar, Khan lunched himself at it, grabbing the monster by the dull edge of its bladed limbs to stop them from cutting down at him. He kicked with his foot, breaking a knee. The beast howled and thrashed. It lunged its head at him, teeth snapping dangerously near to his face but then came the shot from Watson, his gun set to cut with laser this time, and Khan watched as the face of the creature was split in half. It fell on the floor in an ugly heap. Khan stepped back to drink in the image of the monster but John Watson wasn’t finished yet as it would appear. The blonde man viciously stomped at the fallen creature repeatedly, his boots crushing the skull, the chest, the ribs, the shoulders, the legs, crushing every part his feet could land on. John Watson stomped with cavernous aggravation, his powerful muscled thighs empowered by anger and the high of adrenaline. Khan rather thought he could hear the other man’s blood sing.

 

Khan’s eyes lit with unfiltered marvel and glee. Unexpectedly interesting, this man was. He really couldn’t be faulted for not being able to hold back the manic laughter that rumbled from his chest, out of his mouth. They were like butterflies flitting about with their wings wildly, his laughter. He hadn’t realized how he must have been frustrated and deeply disappointed with his previous awakening. He had failed. He might have exacted vengeance on the hateful admiral but he had failed on the things that truly mattered. As he laughed, he let them all go away; let them all wash away from him. What did it matter when he was back on his feet yet again and when his crew was apparently kept safe somewhere in this universe? He would find them. This blonde man who seemed to have entered a trance with his mission to pulverize the already subdued beast told him so. For one delightful moment, there were only the sound of his voice and Watson’s stomping in the galaxy. It was lovely.

 

Almost as abruptly as the silly laughter came about, Khan’s teeth clicked shut, his face swiftly schooled to a mask devoid of emotions. The laughter but was an illusion. He flicked his eyes, now dark and predatory at the seemingly ordinary blonde doctor. _Ah yes_ , that was yet another thing that was interesting. The man in front of him who’d stopped with his brutal, merciless stomping and was now heaving in exhaustion and looking back at Khan’s gaze with tinted cheeks, was a _doctor_. His blue Starfleet shirt was a dead giveaway of his standing being of scientific personnel but that he was possessed with knowledge of reviving Khan from his cryo slumber and that he was intimate with the mechanics how to appropriately handle the beast as if it were his own creation could only lead to one conclusion.

 

“I see now,” Khan said lightly, dipping his head at his side, “the thing that you did, it was horrible indeed, _doctor_.”

 

Watson’s eyes widened when Khan mentioned his profession and the latter can’t help but notice how blue those orbs were. The blonde’s eyes were joyful, almost fascinated for some reasons Khan could not understand, almost as if Watson himself had been looking forward to it. His face was split between guilt and remorse and excitement and anticipation.

 

“Amazing,” Watson whispered under his breath, like a secret being guarded yet impossible to truly conceal and deprive from the world, “as always.”

  

Khan merely gave him a look.

 

“I knew you’d figure it out.”

 

“You made them, the monsters.” Khan stated in his silken voice. “This isn’t the only one.”

 

“No, this isn’t the only one,” John Watson grimaced. “There are seven more, and more of them to be born from the dead.” He supplied meaningfully, his eyes unwavering as they held Khan’s green ones.

 

“You did not answer the first one,” Khan said in a mocked sing-song tone, his voice light but unwavering.

 

Watson sighed exasperatedly. “That wasn’t a question,” he muttered, “and no, I did not technically create them.”

 

Khan’s eyes glinted, his lips curving to a feral grin. “You let them loose.”

 

He was answered with silence and the victim of John Watson’s admonishing glare.

 

This man! This seemingly harmless man was undeniably dangerous. Khan hadn’t decided yet what to think of him now that it has come to light how the latter had clearly unleashed a curse unto the whole ship and by extension unto the crew, condemning them all to a fate worse than hell. Khan couldn’t decide how he ought to feel in regards to the unfolding events. His brain was plagued colossally with a single thought. John Watson has committed a sin so grave, so impersonal and raw, and started all this horror for his sake _. For him_. It was painfully and monstrously beautiful, akin to a planet exploding into tiny bits of creations that imitated the stars, lighting the darkness of the galaxy so brightly before morphing into a darker patch that was a dark hole. What made this whole thing lovely and John Watson currently delectable, was that the latter had not committed the atrocity in cold blood. Those eyes were indisputably consumed with torment. The doctor would have nightmares about this day for the many nights to come. _All this trouble done for him_. _Why?_ Khan felt the thrill claw at his gut when he thought about the screams that were bound to tear away from the man’s mouth. They were his to claim.  If there was a god, Khan would have asked him what goodness he has mistakenly done in previous live to deserve this fascinating man.

 

“ _Stop it._ ” John Watson grumbled.

 

Khan looked at him leisurely, his brows lifting to an inquiring curve.

 

“You’re either deducing or scheming. Stop it.”

 

“Why?” He asked just because he could.

 

“Because we still need to get away first,” John answered in stride, “and you being a prat about it won’t help us.”

 

Khan found it immensely pleasing the way the blonde doctor soldiered on and proceeded to close the remaining steps towards the elevator, promptly ending their discussion and expecting Khan to follow. He stepped over what remained of the creature.

 

“Necromorphs,” John said the soonest that they were enclosed, with the elevator door lurching down. “We call those things necromorphs. You need to dismember them thoroughly else the bastards would come back on their feet. The floor they were keeping you in, it’s advantageously above the hangar. I’ve secured us a pod not too far from the main air lock. We run for it the soonest this elevator door opens.”

 

“Why?” Khan simply asked, almost demanding, the letters rumbling from his chest.

 

It was a testament how John Watson was extraordinary and far from dull when the question was understood.

 

“We get your arse in that pod and I promise to tell you.” He said agreeably, under his breath.

 

“ _Everything._ ”

 

Khan heard the doctor take a deep inhale.

 

“Everything.” The other man answered firmly. A promise.

 

“Well then, _John_ ,” Khan called the doctor’s name gently, stretching the single syllable on his tongue, “should I take your hand as we run for it?”

 

The elevator door opened and as the light from the hangar spilled upon them, Khan saw the wreckage that John Watson truly was with his face broken from a hardly contained howl and with a single drop of tear painting a line on the side of his pale face.

 


End file.
